List
by niverik
Summary: The chronicle of an assassin.
1. Summers Last Snow

**Chapter 1**

**Last Summers Snow**

**A**s i rolled to the gate i saw her, she was beautiful. I could smell her perfume; sweet, bitter, tainted with light persperation. The gaurd stops the car, asks for my invitation. I give it to him. Eric Johanson it says, the corner holds a faint spot of blood, he doesnt notice. He steps back lightly and makes a note on his clipboard. That scent again, panic, desperation. Fear. The common ingredients at a dinner party. The valet takes my key and a lincoln; not too much, not too little. The door stands open, beckons me into its maw. I see him across the room, laughing, drinking, smiling. A father. A congressman. A child molester. He'll die across the room, there she is. She's shy and i can't believe it. So entrancing, im staring at a columbine. Aquilegia canadensis, they call it. I don't mean to stare, but I cannot relieve my eyes of her. She is my vision; no peripheral, nothing. I slide through the dancers, the waltz plays, and i slip to the bar. I sit, order a drink. The taste is dust in my throat, just liquid, not necessary, not special. She looks no-one in the eye, wary, like a doe with her fawn. How appropriate. There is a moment, she slaps him, and i watch her excited walk to the balcony through my tumbler. Time. I'm ready. The steel shocks me, like it always does. I step around the corner, blanketed in a shadow. I whisper to her, the tears lapping, falling in the snow, the last rain. I pull her close and she grips me confidently, no harm shall come from me. Her bodice pushes against me, and i hold her all the way down. I quietly put the syringe back in my jacket. I can't decide what to get for dinner.


	2. Hell

Chapter 2

**Hell**

**J**ustin. Where are you? He's here, amongst. the shadows. I must find him. The pistol is loaded, 11 shots. I'll only need one. At 29 years old he's the youngest cardinal in the Vatican. I've watched him. He's clean, my eyes take him in. Justin Timothy. A magnificent garden lies within these walls. Few will see it. My robe flutters behind me. A serpent in Eden. Where? Confession a priest tells me. Exquisite. Justin Timothy Carson, american. A crucifix hangs above the chapel. I have no need for religion.  
---Father, I have sinned. Tell me. I have killed, in winter and summer. I have done, terrible(wonderful) things. Let your heart lead you. Pray with me.---  
**I** put a bullet in his skull as I begin. Father, i forsake you. Amen.


	3. Home

**Chapter 3**

**Home**

**I** wash the blood from my fingers, it runs down the drain, swirling in an endless infinity of soiled divinity. It doesn't come off. The blade lies on the bedside table. It feels so good.


	4. Prefect

**Prefect**

**I**ts warm and humid, screws with steel. Screws with targets. Time to go, go money, why waste it on a room? A shitty one at that. A prefect of the French Police. Not quite as just as his generous appearance seems. I fire the sedan, drive to the station. My contact leads me in, I just robbed a very convenient store. Cuffs tie me down, he leads me straight to the solitary cells. Left me a uniform too. I change, step lightly from the cell, head straight for the door. Catcalls from the inmates fall on deaf ears. So did the muffled scream of the guard. But that doesn't matter, his ears are deaf now too. To the left, up the stairs, another left, into the bathroom, How do I look? French enough? Fix the line, He's in his office, he needs my report on the string of recent murders. I can smell the burnt sting of coffee through my nose, taste it with my tongue. I load the gun still in the leather, pass another officer of truth. See his watery blue eyes. Weakness. He eyes me curiously as I brush shoulders with the detective. I return a sociable grin. As close upon the threshold I steal the scent of unknown depths from beneath the hardwood door. I pull the pistol from the smooth leather, silenced as the night, and reach for the brass knob. I slide the door open and relieve 3 lead slugs. The throat, the heart, the brain. His brains splatter against the window, completing the abstraction with his heart. The hole excretes a trickle of blood, and I wipe it off. It tastes good. Officer Jean Paul, I tell the investigators. Fifth at the scene, exemplary veteran for over 9 years of the 2nd Prefecture. I slide behind the wheel of the rental, massage the fake leather that stretches across the surface. I start the small engine and drive to the tram, a 2-way ticket on the blue line to nowhere. Prefect.


End file.
